


Groupie

by MiskatonicMassacre



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: M/M, Rockstar!Newt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:10:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2069478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiskatonicMassacre/pseuds/MiskatonicMassacre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermann gets a glimpse of Newton's old Black Velvet Rabbits days during the drift and there is absolutely, positively no way he is attracted to the idea of rockstar Newt in any way, he swears!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Groupie

Drifting with his lab partner had allowed Hermann Gottlieb an insight into Newton Geiszler’s mind that could never have been attained through any other means. Nothing, not even  the painstaking ten years they spent working together, had been able to explain the absurdities that comprised Newton Geiszler the way the drift had. The drift had done more than just explicate, though, it had allowed Hermann a window into Newt’s memories, memories that he might not have ever heard about otherwise. There was one image that had flashed before him within the drift that Hermann was rather fond of. As ludicrous as it sounded, he couldn’t help but think of it to himself as his favorite. Like all of the images that had appeared within the drift, it had only lasted a moment, but a moment was all he needed.

At first, the memory had been almost comedic. The predictability of it was so obvious that Hermann felt that in a way he had always known. Of course Newton had been in a ridiculously nerdy wannabe punk band before focusing all his attention on his precious kaiju. The hours spent blasting alternative rock in the lab, while his gritty voice sang along at top volume, the countless whines of, “I want to be a rockstar,” they all made perfect sense. Within the drift, Hermann had seen Newt at the front of his old band, looking much too enthusiastic to come off looking like a real rockstar. The bar they were playing had been nearly devoid of an audience, and the songs contained science references that were so nerdy, anyone within the actual rock and roll scene wouldn’t have appreciated them. Newt was trying too hard in a pair of much too tight leather pants, guitar slung low as he spit lyrics of his own creation into the mic. This image had played itself over and over again in Hermann’s mind, and each time it did he could not help but grin in spite of himself. 

It initially really hadn’t been much of a problem, not until Hermann found himself recalling the memory more and more often, unable to push it out of his mind. It seemed that whenever the poor man left his mind idle, that particular image of Newt onstage with his guitar always managed to find its way back to him, and the more Hermann dwelt on the memory the more his opinion of it began to change. Over time Newt appeared less and less dorky as he pressed his lips up to the mic. There was something enthralling about the raw energy and enthusiasm Newt displayed onstage, and Hermann stopped laughing at it and slowly started admiring it, which would of course have been fine if those feelings hadn’t moved past admiration, but to Hermann Gottlieb’s misfortune they did.

Much too suddenly Hermann found himself, dare he admit it, attracted to this image of Newt in an unfortunately very sexual way, and it was this attraction that slowly began to drive Hermann slightly mad. He was being driven insane with the thought of Newt onstage, hot and sweaty as he growled into the mic, rough voice reverberating warmly off the walls of the smoky bar. He became fixated on the memory of Newt’s hips grinding away at the guitar while his fingers were fast and frantic on the strings. He was a man obsessed with the image of Newt’s mouth pressed against the microphone, breath heavy between verses. It haunted his dreams. It clouded his thoughts as he was trying to work. Hermann was becoming steadily aware that he was absolutely one hundred percent desperate to somehow engage this rockstar image of Newt sexually, and worst of all, he would not allow himself the mercy of dissolving such thoughts and desires until he achieved this goal. But alas Newt was no longer prone to spending his evenings strutting across the stages of seedy dive bars for the bemusement of disinterested patrons. 

In fact Hermann wasn’t sure what Dr. Geiszler was prone to doing these days, he hadn’t seen his former lab partner face to face for months now. Both of them had been offered different lecture circuit opportunities and had opted to go their separate ways at the end of the war, even after all that tension between them being softened by the drift. It had been strange at first, living and working without having to confront the inconceivable annoyance that is Newton Geiszler on a day to day basis, but eventually Hermann learned to live without Newt, knowing at least that he would always have the memories. Now with the problematic persistence of this one particular memory, Hermann wondered if Newton’s absence really was a blessing or a curse. Perhaps just having the biologist within reach would only tempt Hermann’s fantasies further. A rather sudden answer to this assumption came into reach when Hermann received contact from his lab partner in a way he certainly least expected.

Newt had wrestled with the decision to send Hermann the invitation for days before making up his mind. He begrudgingly had to admit that he missed his old curmudgeonly partner in crime, but he felt that if Hermann were to see him in such a setting he would be likely to laugh in Newt’s face and, despite several times in the lab when Newt had purposefully acted the fool just to see if he actually could get Hermann to crack a smile,all for purely scientific purposes he swears, he wanted Hermann to be laughing with him not at him. Still something in Newt’s subconscious urged him forward until he obliged to send the invitation. He mused that it was more than likely Hermann would ignore it entirely and they instead could meet up at a later date in a slightly more appropriate setting. 

Hermann, for his part, received the invitation without fail and was barely able to comprehend what he was reading as he read it. According to Newton’s letter, he had compiled another band and they would be in town playing, and it seemed Newt was inquiring if Hermann would come see him perform. The wave of emotions that swept over Hermann at this news, was almost too much for him to take. He gripped the handle of his cane nervously, wanting to laugh but instead feeling like he might be sick. This was just what his filthy mind had been praying for, a chance to see Newt on stage grinding away at the guitar live and in person. Of course he wasn’t going. He feared what might happen if he did go, but temptation begged him to reconsider. The night after receiving the letter Hermann found his dreams utterly haunted with enticing images of Newton on stage. In one Newt dragged the mic stand behind him as he strutted to the edge of the stage, before swinging his leg over to straddle it. He bent low as he grinded away at it, sweat dripping down his chest, a filthy smirk plastered across his face. He bent his face down to touch the mic, letting out a primal moan against the rhythm of the bass guitar. He reached out a hand into the crowd, it found Hermann’s but instead of Newton yanking Hermann up onto the stage, Hermann pulled Newt down with him into the hot crowd and he kept pulling, guiding Newt down down down until--. It was at that moment in the dream that Hermann woke with a start, sweat practically soaked through his pajamas. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “That settles it,” he muttered, “I am going to that show and I am going to fuck Newton Geiszler in all his wretched wannabe rockstar glory.”

The bar was even more of a dump than Hermann had expected. The interior smelt worse than the sickening stench of Kaiju entrails, which he had had to endure for years. An odd mix of patrons were milling about. None of them looked particularly interested in seeing a show, but instead just seemed as if they happened to be in the right place at the right time. Hermann dodged around them, careful not to stare. He passed a small group of young people dressed in patent leather and costume jewelry, two drag queens who would have been otherwise quite convincing if not for their enormous stature, and a mangy looking man who smelt strongly of piss, all before managing to reach the actual bar of the pub. The bartender was at least twice as wide as he was tall with a thick red mustache and almost as many tattoos as Newt. He leered at Hermann who coughed uncomfortably before ordering a beer. There was no way he’d be able to make it through this experience sans alcohol. 

Hermann settled himself into a corner, away from the other patrons, but still with an excellent view of the stage. He sipped his beer determinedly, still feeling a bit surprised that he had actually dragged himself out to see Newt’s show. “What are you doing here?” he asked himself, watching two men fumble around onstage with the sound equipment. “You aren’t really going to prey upon Newton in such an abysmal setting just so you can fulfill some twisted fetish, are you?” he said to himself, now coming to terms with the situation. He glanced toward the drag queens in their sequined cocktail dresses, then over at the leather-clad youths who were now passing around a flask, and finally over at the enormous bartender who was eyeballing a group of drunken young women all wearing very little clothing. Hermann was a man of science, and he was very certain that he did not belong in such an establishment. He was ready to push himself up, out of his seat and be on his way, when the already dim lights of the bar appeared to grow even dimmer. With a loud click, a spotlight hit the stage. A skinny, greasy haired girl shuffled onstage and began strapping on a bass guitar. Behind her came a balding man in ripped jeans who took a seat behind the drums. Following him was a young asian guy with floppy hair dyed a dark red, who swung a guitar round from behind. Bringing up the rear and looking more excited than the three of his bandmates combined, came Newton Geiszler. His hair somehow looked even messier than usual. He was sporting a leather collar round his neck and quite possibly some guyliner. He had miraculously managed to shimmy into his old leather pants to both Hermann’s delight and misfortunate. Everything about the outfit should have made him look like a huge fucking dork, yet instead Hermann was suddenly reminded exactly why he had come to the bar. “That bastard,” he hissed, downing the rest of his beer.

Newt squinted into the spotlight, wishing to survey his audience but being sadly blinded instead. Blood was pounding in his ears as he hurriedly strapped on his guitar, practically dropping it several times out of sheer excitement. He leaned into the mic to greet the crowd. His voice was high and tight. The crowd in return was somehow both apathetic and expectant simultaneously. Unable to wait much longer, Newt gave the cue to the rest of the band and they launched into their first song.

The music was terrible or it should have been. The drums were brash and sloppy, the volume of the bass was turned up so high you could feel its notes hammering in your chest and the rhythm guitar sounded completely nonsensical. The saving grace of the band really was Newt, who had always taken quickly to music even as a child. His voice was comparable to the sound of someone aggressively stomping on a bag of chips. In theory it should not have sounded good, and yet somehow it did. It was rough but enjoyable and it soared through the high notes with a rather impressive falsetto. At first, the crowd was equal parts unresponsive and encouraging. Some patrons continued on like nothing had happened while others showed their approval. The mangy piss-scented man nodded enthusiastically to the beat as the drag queens moved closer to the stage so they could dance in front of the band. Newton took advantage of this, choosing to flirt with them and anyone else who came close to the stage. Hermann had to admit, as ridiculous as the whole situation was and despite the unimpressiveness of his band, Newt certainly knew how to sing and play guitar, and more importantly he knew how to work a crowd, slowly drawing more and more patrons to the lip of the  stage. Hermann kept his distance though, sipping beer and waiting, afraid what he might feel compelled to do if he made his way closer to the stage. 

The band played through several fast and upbeat songs, managing to garner a decent amount of patrons into dancing or at the very least banging their heads along to the band’s somewhat spastic rhythms. Finally Newt pressed his lips to the mic and informed the crowd, “We’re gonna bring it down a little now.” at these words the lights changed. The bright spotlight dimmed and switched over to cool blue, bathing Newt and his band in the haunting new light. Hermann could see the sweat dripping down his old lab partner. Newt’s already tight shirt was now sticking to him and his attempted guyliner  was smudged about his eyes. There was something much too enticing about the disheveled, overheated image of Newt. Hermann admitted he was growing more and more aroused as the night lingered on and Newt pumped out more and more rock n roll, but this was simply too much. Newt ran his fingers through his sweat drenched hair, rolling his hips as he went, waiting for the intro of the song to end so he could start up the lyrics. The song sounded slow and meaty and something about it just made you want to grab someone and pull them close. Newt licked his lips in preparation for the oncoming verse, and all Hermann could think was, “oh god” as he pressed his own lips onto the edge of another beer. He wasn’t quite sure what number drink he was on now, he only knew that he still hadn’t had enough to drink for this particular situation. Newt began the lyrics, his voice scandalously husky and his eyes closed as he sang into the mic. Then as if that wasn’t enough he opened them and Hermann practically spilled his drink straight down his front. Newt was staring, no not staring, gazing enticingly towards the very corner Hermann happened to be sitting in. Did he know? Could he see? Was Newt somehow purposely trying to seduce Hermann during this song because he was doing a very good job of it, and he stayed gazing like that for the entire song. Hermann found himself barely able to look up from his drink for most of the song, the look in Newt’s eyes and the sound of his voice much too alluring to combat with at the same time, but after that it was over as if nothing had happened. The lights switched back and the band ripped into another upbeat tune, the entire bar behaving as if nothing of concern had just happened, except for Hermann who couldn’t pretend what had just happened had not.

He got up from his seat in the corner and slipped as quickly as he could into the bathroom. The restroom was as disgusting as Hermann had expected it to be and he couldn’t help but notice two things as he gazed at his reflection in the dingy mirror. The first was how absurdly out of place he looked in the hygienically neglected bathroom of a dive bar, and the second was that his face was as red as radishes. God damn Newton Geiszler. He splashed several handfuls of cold water onto his face and waited until he heard the thrashing of guitars inside the bar die out before leaving the bathroom. 

When he emerged the lights were back on and the patrons were chattering away as they had been when Hermann had first entered. The stage was empty save for the two men from earlier, once again fiddling with various sound equipment. Hermann didn’t stick around long though, he hastily grabbed his coat and headed outside. He stood in the alley waiting at the side door that led to the bar’s backstage area, both silently cursing himself and thanking himself for having decided to come. It was several minutes, but eventually Newton Geiszler emerged from the side door, leather jacket left unzipped to welcome the cool night air, hands attempting to mop up his brow and face stuck with a permanent post-show grin. It took him a moment to recognize the stranger scowling at him from the shadows, but once his eyes adjusted to darkness he realized he would have known that scowl anywhere. “Hermann! You came!” he cried stretching out his arms excitedly for a hug. 

“You bastard,” Hermann spat. 

Newt stopped, a little taken aback by the apparent hostility, “You didn’t like the show?” 

“You Goddamn bastard,” Hermann replied planting his hands on either side of the shorter man’s face and pulling him up to meet him, letting his lips crush against Newt’s aggressively for one  long, wondrous moment. The two pulled apart for a moment and Newt was surprised to see Hermann still scowling, “I’ve been waiting to do that all night,” he admitted. 

Newt’s grin was so wide his cheeks were hurting, “Oh yeah?,” he replied, “And you call me the groupie!” 

“Shut up!” snapped Hermann, pulling the other man back towards him. 

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the description of Newt's singing is based on my own opinion's on Charlie Day's voice. It shouldn't sound good but it does.


End file.
